Music to My Weary Bones
When I bought my house I knew there were a lot of trees on my quarter-acre lot. The first time I raked the leaves, I counted the trees. Forty. Even if eight of them are cedar it still means I have thirty-two trees dropping leaves. Every year. Fortunately, the trees and brush on the lower quarter of my pie-shaped lot are so thick that I don’t consider it to be lawn. Every autumn, for nine years years, I raked leaves into piles, raked them onto a tarp, then carried them downhill, to the giant leaf-compost pile I had fenced off. Then I walked uphill, to load the tarp again. Twenty to thirty times. Fifteen to twenty hours over a couple of weeks. Until now. I finally broke down and bought a gas-powered backpack leaf blower. I worked with ear-protecting headphones, but as I joined my neighbors in blowing leaves I’m sure it sounded like a chorus of screaming banshees to the outside world. All I heard was classical music on Spotify as I blew those leaves downhill.
blue jay squawks in protest
all sounds are muted
flying leaves in carefree dance
as Vivaldi’s music plays